Oh, Set, you little dictator scamp

 
First they came for the internets, and I didn't speak out because I have the internets.

Then they came for the Colonel, and I didn't speak out because KFC is too greasy.



Always good to see a slimy tendril of The Man™ get the unwashed mass's bird.

FUN FACT: Did you know that 79.6% of all pre-APFA/NFL professional football players were nicknamed Dutch?

Victim of changes

Tune in next week for more of industrial sociology's greatest hits.
Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the shovel.

Gods & Monsters

Bradley, Bradley Manning, is that you?

This is a bad idea.

Ohio will be the first state with a one-drug injection process using pentobarbital, a sedative used during heart surgery. But one death penalty expert said Ohio is turning to an unproven execution method that she likened to an experiment.

Jesus H. Cthulhu on a pike, what do you think the likes of Guantanamo are for? What happens if, instead of hall of justice-ing these minimum-security scumbags, said scumbags are chemically Frankensteined into some kind of über killing machine whose ever-growing pile of corpses doesn't end with those gainfully employed in lucrative field of corrections?

When your wife & kids are raped, torn & eaten, don't come crying to me.

The inexorable drone of existence continues unabated, or, how 'bout that local sports team?

I'm sure some fools patriots interested parties Democrats Republicans independents soccer moms NASCAR dads whatever the talking hairpieces' unwashed mass flavor of the week is C-Span junkies heroin junkies Soviet satellite aficionados

Gasp! I knew it!

anarchists the unemployable angry loners drunks masochists watched The State™ last night & since I already explained my view on the subject & being thoroughly unprofessional &/or not a supervillain & we've already burned through 3,447 importantly pivoting critical moments in our long national pirouette I'm sure this 3,448th is the Gozerian key, bonne chance, suckers.
Slow ride, take it easy, th'eternall Glasse awaits ye.  

Oh, the local sports team(s) suck(s). But, like the above, you knew that.

Oh, P.S., help a fellow traveler out, the internets must be swankified.

How To Win Writer's Block and Influence People

I took a dip in the Dead Pool & all I got was this lousy hypothermia.




I darkthroned in the woods behind my house & listened to the trees growl back.


Alas, alas, all that's left is square one, paper & pen.

No, Tayfun, I'm not writing about this evening's infomercial.

Don't hate the player, hate the city

Believe me, I too am surprised the library is this popular. 

Traditionally the second greatest weekend on the football calendar after the divisional round I'm not counting the ESPN Hope & Change Invitational because have you seen our non-Joe Thomas track record*, fucking Tartarus, the Subpar Bowl's been believing its own hype of late, so all these (mostly) old schoolers better put down their pointless thus media-wheeled-that's-job-security-dude faux bitchslap monologues & hunker down to homeworking. Let's see that new overtime rule wrench a few monkeys. Entertain me & my pizza rolls, non-Cleveland bastards. 

Even you, my Tunisian brothers. You may be reading this Kleenex and empty talk on the Internet. This Internet, which any demented person, any drunk can get drunk and write in, do you believe it? The Internet is like a vacuum cleaner, it can suck anything. Any useless person; any liar; any drunkard; anyone under the influence; anyone high on drugs; can talk on the Internet, and you read what he writes and you believe it. This is talk which is for free. Shall we become the victims of “Facebook” and “Kleenex”* and “YouTube”! Shall we become victims to tools they created so that they can laugh at our moods?  

I, for one, welcome our new comedic overlord.

Jeez, you're all so serious. You can't stop red giantism.

The Fucking Jets @ The Fucking Steelers: I keep on picking against Noo Yawk & they keep on emerging victorious which makes me Jimmy the Greek minus the foot-in-mouth meal, Colossus of Rhodes spectacles & Brent Musberger. Am I evil for wanting Ben to be Turkey Jonesed, yes I am. I will not, I cannot ignore the incontrovertible factoids & will continue to pick against Noo Yawk, a veritable shoo-in to vanquish The Fucking Steelers, Mike Wallace the new Jimmy Orr. Thus, Doug Brien Nick Folk shanks & The Fucking Steelers 20-17(OT), I guarantee it.

Vomit. Where's my Kleenex? Dammit, I'm not YouTube.

Green Bay @ Chicago:  A team that will (theoretically; the monster of capitalism is nigh unstoppable when it sets its mind to destroying not just materiel but the precious, precious soul) never move contra second citysters, a team with a historically on-fire thrower against one whose current signalcaller has a chance to be the best Bears QB since way back when imprisoning Japs & firebombing Huns were the orders of the day, toss statistics in the blender, a pinch of salt, a dash of French fried onions et voilà, Packers 27-17.

*yes, Alex Mack & Joe Haden look like keepers, but we said that about Don Rogers & he coked himself to death. Red giantism.

Ars (basketballque; no I don't remember Latin grammer, it's been forever, fuck off) mortis, vita brevis

Offspring the Sequel returned to the homestead with her 8th grade class selection parchment & lo, behold & hark, as expected, fiduciary excision has come to pass & the corpse is alive of course of course unless the corpse is of course the famous Mr. Art. Thanke the Kynge, hys Sheriffs & the plebians who run the local abattoir for, in their own special way, buying snicker into Austerity™ & lopping off the useless-to-corporate, though, & please don't put me in the stockade, French & Spanish shalt remain? Verily, foreign languages are so foreign & when do you think you'll ever be using them whilst jockeying cubicles, connecting to our counterpart minions who already sprechen ye olde Anglo-Saxon?

One step at a time, Randal, one step at a time.

  


Speaking of the dreary, sweet merciful crap, the Cavs are bloody fucking grotesque, a veritable gaggle (flock? mass? troop? herd? horde?) of undead.

I attract the exact conditions that I need to become a fuller person, or, March of the Peons*

Start looking at your job with kind eyes. 

Creatively combining the mesmerizing, psilocybin DSM-IV combat zone known as the first day of the semester & the timely(!) completion of assessment's post-assessment assessment, where the allure of creatively altering body language, the latest in software technology & judicious electro-theft of мой товарищ's masterpiece of English major bullshittery melt into a heady, non-alcoholic brew because those HR-mandated 12-step gigs would get in the way of empty glass-half-empties, I'm not sure how to complete this thought dying to vulture those already decaying, a delicious saucer of milk greedily lapped up by The Man's Blofeldian feline.

What was your impression of this course?

Oh, it left an impression, zing.

I enjoy my day in harmony and share my harmony with others.

Two out of three renegade Nazi occultists infiltrating the Bilderbergers agree, Harness Quantum Mind Power!

An image of Brainiac would have been more appropriate, but poor, poor Solomon Grundy, the purple-headed stepchild of supervillains, never gets any love & I'm all about being positively quantum, don't you dare declare that I'm being meta, ninjitsuly declaring all this rigmarole a living comic book especially since I'd likely be cursed with the useless power of rendering you a messy blob with my 20/9,000 vision at least I've got the Bat Cave.

This is actually true:
Be diligent and proactive. On the one hand, if you don't like your tasks you will "suffer" them for longer if you delay doing them. On the other hand, when you finish all you have to do you achieve a sense of accomplishment and the inner peace that everything is done. 

Internets porn is peaceful after finishing achievement.

Visualize or imagine a big bubble or shield, made out of light and that shines like diamond or gold, which surrounds you and protects you. 

Wonder bubble powers, activate!

Shape of, shiny happy people holding hands!

You can start a gratitude journal in which to record what you are thankful for, or you could also use a gratitude rock.

Won't this conflict with my success journal, or worse, won't my pet rock get jealous?

This big ball of energy feels good; it acts like a shield and doesn't let any negative energy get to you. 

Who's got the biggest balls of them all?

The person who typed this, natch:  Remember that everyone is doing the best they can with what they know at each moment.

*79.6% of stuff in bold from this pile of fecal matter, a place that shares an aura with the Solomon Grundys behind Customer Service Training Day(s).

P.S. Trying to promote brown jeans may prove quite useless.

Things that make me chortle, part MCMXLVII

1) Monolithic entities requiring unwashed peons to fax things.

I imagine it'll be different in the far-distant future of the 21st century.

2) Oh great, now they know.

State of the Union

Driven to violence

Subscribing, like the state, to the newsletter of transparency, I've made it abundantly cellophane my disdain for this weekend's Mr. Slate. But, on an internet already shot with explosive commentary, don't expect me to drop any bombs, just bad syntax.

The Fucking Ravens @ The Fucking Steelers: 'tis nearly a cliche to ring like choosing between Stalin & Hitler, but since I enjoy trivializing things I have absolutely no control over, 'tis like choosing between Stalin & Hitler. Which makes the other AFC gig a choice between Pol Pot & Pinochet. Mano y mano steroidial sangfroid, post-whistle steel cage monkey wrenched skulls, rustbelt throwback grime & loss. If only I were more Serious™ huh. 'cause they're at the Big Ketchup, & what the L.C. Greenwood, in a '75 clothesline timewarp, The Fucking Steelers 16-10.

Green Bay @ Atlanta: The Packers are the superior team, please don't be a moron & buy into the long-discredited notion of records in close games being an arbiter of quality. That said, America's Worst Sporting Town isn't chopped cirrhosis. Special guest star James Starks as Timmy Smith is moot, if Aaron Rodgers stays upright & unconcussed. Packers 21-17.

Seattle @ Chicago: 'tis nearly another cliche to chime the 12th man's king(dome) in Seattle but since the upstarts begin this week's combat on the road, it ends peppered by Julius. Unless Mike Martz reverts to being Mike Martz (or Jay Cutler to being Jay Cutler), always a national security threat. He'll hold off for one more week -- see, America, Matt Forte doesn't suck, only his O-line does. Bears 27-13.

The Fucking Jets @ The Fucking Patriots: Know what annoys besides authority figures & having to deal with people so my nuclear doesn't starve to death shelterless, the unavoidable (outside of brilliantly random meteor strikes & what are the odds of that start praying to the Old Ones) blasphemy that the winner of this game becomes the de facto rooting interest the following week. I'm starting to wonder if there's a Cthulhu. Spiritual crisis aside, they're at home & they're better, thus The Fucking Patriots 34-16.

 
The Browns, what of 'em? I considered making a Shermer/Shurmer quip, but couldn't get beyond the difficulty of linking the oeuvre of John Hughes with the local football franchise. Oh, a high school outfit, I get jokes! Once upon a time, Sean E. Payton, Super Genius, had his play calling duties ripped & torn away by Li'l Jimmy Fossil. The point: we have no fucking clue if Pat will be a saint or Old Scratch's commandant. As it's been since the Precambrian, talent. The 1-10-1 Packers had some that Lombardi whipped into 7-5, then success forever etched on one of those silver footballs. Sans skill, that's 5-7 or worse you betcha.

Receiver, receiver, draft a receiver are you receiving, Major Tom? Bah & humbug. Is A.J. Green Calvin Johnson, don't know, so I say fix the fucking lines first. Quiet, jealous Sam Bradford. Detroit can't run block, but they can pass protect, 5th in sack percentage, thus Calvinball. Check out historical AVs; higher with O- & D-linemen than receivers, but one admittedly handy number can never tell the whole story -- anyone believe Joey Galloway's better than Lance Alworth? (not that Mr. Green appears to be a slouch & Fairley'll be gone by the time we choose, grumble, etc, so he's probably the pick, though watch him be gone, too, extra grumble).

You can toss to castoffs & pieces-parts if you've a rare collection of large men; see Mr. Bundchen in Ye Olde Bah-ston whose top six hands are 1)undrafted, 2)a second rounder on his second go-round, 3)a fourth round rookie, 4)a second round rookie, 5)an undrafted midget running back & 6)a third round special teamer. Jerry Rice & John Taylor won't help if your quarterback's on his back more often than a DC politician, unless your quarterback is Joe Montana (yes, I'm conveniently ignoring the fact that McCoy ain't either slinger, but who is these days) Think I'm an obfuscatorian? Ask Tim Couch.

Help McCoy, Obi-Wan, you're our only hope.

 
 

Oh, come on, Dick, they'll be better than 2-14.

There's more to life than sports

Oh shit, childish scribblers have probably moved on to a new angle, huh. Whatever that is, I'm sure I can find a headbanging corollary to such freshly vomited over-parsing by some media/political tool(s) looking to ink column inches & pollute the atmosphere.

Or I can simply post more sports.*

Is it me, or is this drone snicker really snort chortle wheez:

“If, as has been discussed in recent days, their deaths help usher in more civility in our public discourse,” Mr. Obama said, “let us remember that it is not because a simple lack of civility caused this tragedy — it did not — but rather because only a more civil and honest public discourse can help us face up to our challenges as a nation, in a way that would make them proud.” 

Snort chortle wheez. Well, alright, I suppose getting caught red-handed in the cookie jar is circumstantial & you really weren't eating those oatmeal raisins, I'm sure those crumbs all over your power tie were planted by an undesirable, foreign or domestic we simply don't know yet. Your honesty is refreshing.

Dammit, ich bin jetzt hungrig. Off to find something to eat. 

Image courtesy of someone who didn't pay attention during Customer Service Training Day & look at the result wasting the taxpayer's money photoshopping at work didn't you learn anything from the HR Bot besides the judicious deployment of interesting conversational vignettes oh shit we still have to finish our post-assessment assessment in order to get our Certificate of Completion, a copy of which will appear next to said post-assessment assessment in our permanent file something that surely won't be used when deciding whom to lay off once Austerity™ flicks the nitrous switch.

I hope this post was a vignette of conversational interestingness for everyone.

*football tomorrow, duh

Seriously.

There's a gli- gli- gli- glitch that sti- sti- icky -icks.

A craw, a craw, my kingdom for an oblivious craw.

Last three in PER for our *cough* stalwarts, minimum of 500 minutes played:
Antawn Jamison 20.6 to 17.3 to 16.2, coulda needs a contendah.
Anthony Parker 12.1 to 9.9 to 10.1, sweet merciful crap, just stay hurt.
Anderson Varejao 14.6 to 15.8 to 15.4 + Defender + out for the year = ARGH.
Mo Williams 17.2 to 16.1 to 14.3, if there's a sack with a dollar sign, you take it.
Boobie Gibson 10.1 to 11.3 to 15.1, always one kid who listens -- & gets hurt.
J.J. Hickson 12.5 to 15.2 to 11.4, a walking brain cramp.
Ramon Sessions 17.6 to 12.9 to 16.9, out-of-control turnover machine.
Jamario Moon 13.3 to 12.6 to 8.9, why is he not cleaning Cheney's cage?

The sad part is, aside from Old Man Antawn still being owed 28+ milion through the Year of Quetzalcoatl, the only contracts off the books this offseason are Parker's 2.8 million & Leon Powe's 900k. Moonpie's 3.19 million team option will not be picked up or I'll walk from here to Californistan to toss eggs at Tengrain's house. Throw in the fact that the odds of lottery numero uno ain't swanky (we already lucked out once, one more than Cleveland, per the basketball gods, should be allowed) & thus, it's a black matter for the font & us.

Look, when you're offensively inept, you play D. If you don't play D, you're these guys. I'll admit I might have been smoking something out of a dime store vending machine -- remember those NFL helmets for a quarter? -- when I penciled these jokers in for 35 wins & an 8th seed, but fuck man, 1992-93 Mavericks bad, that's a nigh unattainable realm of suck only spoken of in hushed tones. Terry Davis! Mike Iuzzolino! Sean Rooks! The immortal Walter Bond! How Derek Harper didn't commit center court seppuku remains a mystery Eleusinian.

Can someone clear all the knives out of Sideshow Bob's house? Merci.

Sigh. At least they're not the amoral denizens of the Sunday morning talking hairpiece roundtable nation & goddammit, that's something.

Seriously?

Microcosmic Cadavaliers.

Hmm, meet Microcosmic Cadaver, the unholy love child of early Carcass & spacey, second-wave black metal. What, you thought I was going to be the 8,347,114th person to regurgitate a day late on assassination tango? Talk about reeking of putrefaction.

*uncomfortable silence*

Dammit, I need more metal readers.

Well, Comic Sans, your best player's all dressed up in 8-29 with no particular court to go, an unyielding, ever widening freakshow of tape, three-shilling jump shots, negative plane post moves, mind control defense, check this disturbance: imagine neither Klingons nor Romulans but twenty-six episodes of The Interstellar Cavalcade of Lwaxana Troi & Mr. Homn. There's your nutshell, trade everyone, even the ballboy for a 2014 conditional second rounder & a pastrami on rye.

Oh, & for the cherry on top, a leering Sammy Hagar AFC Weekend of Baltimore (horrors!) & the slightly-less-demonic Pittsburgh, plus the victory-saturated Egoburgs of Bah-ston & Noo Yawk. Pass the machine gun. What, I'm not allowed to be as violent as everyone else? I want to sup some of that state-sanctioned rage, too, bub. Now, at the risk of being unpopular, this blogger places the blame for all of this squarely on you, the viewers#.

#identify them per your own political bent, it's a free blog, I'm off to change the world by lighting a moment of silence. 

Like putting rouge on a corpse

If labor issues wipe out 2011, at least the Browns aren't Super Bowl calibre.

See, I don't always think the glass is 15/16 empty.



The 30th anniversary of a monster greedily savaging the hypothalamus into prolonged inverse catatonia passed by this week & yes, I was present for this laying of the foundation upon which bricks of sweat & bit fingernails fired in the oven of superheated screams at the teevee are still being piled sport after sport, season after season, this Tower of Misery whose top now touches the black above the clouds.

 













Li'l Randal, mom, pop & the late, great uncle Mick.

Sports may indeed be a garish part of the spectacle, a diabolical trap that lures the unwashed masses into a sense of unwarranted belonging, of validity, but at least Brian Sipe never launched a drone. Just a duck.

C'mon, The Man, one bone in the shape of silver football, woof, woof.

New Orleans @ Seattle AKA the Julius Jones Revenge Game: What, why, huff n' puff n' stuff seven of and nine Sid n' Marty Krofft! Looks, ladies & germs, lockout or no, when the No Fun unless you're Brett Favre wink nudge League returns with 18 & Life, betcha they expand the playoffs even further. When the battle's between integrity & an extra wheelbarrow full of stogie kindling, the winner's clear. Oh, the game. The Saints are down to the aforementioned Gold Julius, rusty Reggie Bush, street retread DeShawn Wynn & an unretired Dalton Hilliard, but fucking hell, if they lose, Malcolm Jenkins or no (ed. note: no) to a statistical sack of vomit, they deserve the unyielding scorn. Saints 34-20.

N.Y. Jets @ Indianapolis: Captain Advertisement's getting comfortable with his rubber band & chewing gum receiver corps, the run's fun again & Dirty Sanchez's hurt. Sure, scoff, the Jets may be hard knock rush, bluster & foot fetishists, but watch the turnovers flow into home cooking. Colts 26-14.

Baltimore @ Kansas City: Fucking hell I fucking hate Baltimore that fucking Super Bowl trophy should be fucking ours, Jesus H. Cthulhu on a stick, fuck you you fucking motherfuckers I'll burn your fucking house to ash. Doesn't always work, this primal blog therapy. Flacco's O is 25th in sack percentage & if they can't block Tamba Hali -- & Haley Joel Todd actually gives the ball to Jamaal Charles more than 15 times -- 6.4 bub, 6.4 -- the Chiefs have a wonderful opportunity to bring me temporary joy. Thus, 23 carries by dessicated Thomas Jones & Ravens, 24-14.

Green Bay @ Philadelphia: Norm Van Brocklin leading the City of Hate to its last title, 4th & 26 & now I Like Mike, all good times. I also like son of Clay (who should be in Canton, you dumb bastards) leading the top D this side of Pittsburgh & the best quarterback -- or at worst, the less-sacked -- if not the best story, in this game. Sorry, Philly, but maybe you'll get lucky & there'll be icy snowballs to whip at little children. Packers 27-24.

It's very obvious that I'm not even trying

But then neither are they. Ba-doom-boom.

Apologies for the obligatory 'I just couldn't find the time to prepare a thing because I was occupied with not drowning in a sea of orange tears' low-hanging post. Didn't they make Fruity Pebbles? Man, was that stuff fucking awful.

Something of substance tomorrow.* Or not. Bribe me with goods & services.

*football, duh.

I'm gonna wash that gray™ right out of my hair!

 




This tome was lurking in this morning's bookdrop & after a coworker & I leafed through its lurid 1976 Seattle Seahawk garb in order to discover that 1)the reason for the proliferation of sexual harassment in the office is chicks dressing like club sluts, 2)shoes make the man & 3)black comedy's got nothing on corporate, I began to silently pray to Cthulhu that I don't end up a casualty of Austerity® 'cause

snark towards various & sundry + cheap fashion sense + zero 'marketable' skills = would you like fries with that.

Thankfully, there are plenty of fast food joints within walking distance of my house, so at least I'll save on public transportationista fare.

"One ancient Greece, one English lit, a large fry & a diet Coke. $7.98."

Unwinding only leads to being unwound

Tucked in the stack of to-be-processed periodicals, the new Poets & Writers cover surreptitiously screams like Van Gogh post-ear something about where O where can my inspiration be the KKK took my inspiration away. Fuck if I know, I usually just steal obscurities then quietly rage eight seconds after that the page contains naught but awful. I haven't decided if 'writer's block sucks' is indeed an axiom or actually a blessing in a Groucho nose n' stache because my stuff does suck (the secret word!), the two sucks canceling each other out, thus taking the title of Suckiest Bunch of Sucks That Ever Sucked from black notebook poems & returning it to it's rightful owner, that bowling team the Cadavaliers & leaving me with nothing but saccharine gunk.

Someone pick a word already & I'll write around it & never show it, my synapses are blocked, or drunk.

Speaking of drunkards, only explanation for the lack of Kiss Kommenters. NE Ohio, you too, suck.

There's verse in them thar turgids!

I'm going to start stealing from myself. The Poetics of Onanism. Add 'Marxist' & we've got a postgrad bestseller on our hands.

Zombie Rabbit Apocalypse!

Documentary footage of my vacation.

What, you simply assumed I sat on my ass & watched Star Trek reruns, which I of course did because I didn't have to deal with a single human being except my sometimes-better-half & kids if I so chose did I mention that I didn't have to deal with a single human being except my sometimes-better-half & kids if I so chose & lemme tell ya that don't blow unlike the Browns who do who are you? fucking crap that's who.

A man can get used to life outside the electro-stream. I assume at least one famous yokel croaked (I don't know 'cause I really disconnected) & that The Man's system is sadly still without an omnipresent laugh track, & complete waste of police state dollars. Sadly, or happily, depends on the day, I didn't write a thing.

Except my signature on that ticket for indecent exposure.

*laugh track*